


Not Making a Fuss

by BlackEyedGirl



Category: Discworld - Pratchett
Genre: Empathy, M/M, Porn Battle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-22
Updated: 2010-07-22
Packaged: 2017-10-10 18:08:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/102590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackEyedGirl/pseuds/BlackEyedGirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Faculty stops for a meal break en route to Pseudopolis. Ridcully goes to see where Stibbons has got to. Post Unseen Academicals, written for Porn Battle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Making a Fuss

**Author's Note:**

> For Porn Battle X for prompts: _details, organised_. Set immediately post Unseen Academicals.

Mustrum had rather hoped a little vacation would cheer Stibbons up. The journey to Pseudopolis isn't long, but they are travelling with the Senior Faculty so the travel time is more than doubled by the requirement for frequent meal-breaks. They may not make the city by morning at this rate. Mustrum supposes that will give some time for Brazeneck's little giant chicken problem to develop.

Stibbons, however, seems less than enthused. He threw some coins at the innkeeper for a room and vanished upstairs. Mustrum is oddly disconcerted by the idea of not knowing where Stibbons is, as in case of emergency, the man is the only one likely to ask helpful questions like 'what should we do?" (Unlike the unhelpful questions such as 'so what happens about lunch?' and 'what makes you think I did it?') So Mustrum follows him.

Stibbons is poring over some papers, dutifully pencilling numbers in columns. Mustrum really had never meant to turn him into an accountant. They have people for that, but unfortunately one of those people is the Bursar, and the only other is Stibbons himself.

Mustrum sighs. "Stibbons, this is meant to be a holiday."

"I thought this was meant to be coming to the aid of our sister institute of magical learning."

Mustrum nods. "Well, yes, of course, and that as well. But there's enough ruddy paperwork in the university without you dragging it along on trips."

Stibbons addresses his answer to the papers. "If I didn't, nothing would get done."

Mustrum sits on the couch beside Stibbons. He doesn't know why he says, "Things are always disappointing you, aren't they?" He remembers the business in Fourecks, all of a sudden, and that problem with Stibbons' little created worlds.

Stibbons seems startled by the question, looking up at Mustrum with his eyes large behind his glasses. He says, "In the past, perhaps. Not so much any more. I can't seem to work up the required level of surprise." He smiles wanly.

Since the Dean left (traitor) and the Bursar built up too much of a tolerance for the dried frog pills, it's the two of them quite often. It's a committee of sorts, he supposes, with all of the posts Stibbons has accumulated for himself. And Stibbons has matured somewhat. Before, it was all 'fabric of reality' this and 'great insight into the philosophical implications on the theory of unified magic' that. He hasn't come up with a ridiculous and expensive research proposal in months now.

Mustrum says, "Does young Turnipseed know that they offered you the post first?"

Stibbons nods. "I believe so. He isn't petty about it."

Bristling, Mustrum demands, "Pettiness, is it? To expect a little loyalty towards the old alma mater? Bloody treacherous little-."

"We've been through this."

They have, with Stibbons burning in one of his spats of short-lived fury. He never seems to maintain the anger very long, but it's oddly compelling while it lasts. Stibbons has a devious twisted-up mind underneath all the other things. Mustrum imagines that's why he likes him. Or trusts him, or whatever it is that means he seems to have ended up with a second-in-command without noticing. Mustrum asks, "You sure about that Professorship then? Make the whole thing more official."

"What thing?"

"Your exercising all of the authority I'm not. And some more besides. I wonder, young Stibbons, if you've ever thought about trying out the old Dead Man's Pointy Shoes. You'd be a damn sight better at running the place than any of the rest of the-."

Stibbons is shaking his head. "What? No. I don't have that- I don't have that kind of power, for one thing. I just keep things running. Which I will admit is a formidable task, but not especially magical."

Mustrum pats Stibbons's shoulder and feels the boy startle under his hand. That's interesting. Mustrum keeps his hand there, for a moment, and then moves to Stibbon's knee. He asks, conversationally, "Have you tried delegation? I find it helps."

"So you keep saying. You delegate to me. Or one of the servants. I don't have… anyone I would ask, by the time they said 'no' and 'why me?' and 'does the Archchancellor know you're doing this?' I could have already done it myself."

Mustrum acknowledges the truth of this, and also that Stibbons is neither moving away nor relaxing. He's just staying quite still, tense little curled up muscle underneath his robes. Mustrum says, "But you won't leave."

Stibbons sighs. "No. I don't suppose so. Hex is here, after all, and he's grown rather from our original design. I don't imagine he would travel, and if I wasn't occupying the majority of posts on a university council, probably I would need him for all of the research I'm not doing."

Hex has indeed spread into an increasingly labyrinthine-like collection of rooms, but that doesn't appear to be the pressing issue. Mustrum doesn't know what experience of the world Stibbons has. It can be hard to tell, with wizards. They are supposed to be _practically_ celibate but _theoretically_ interested in the fairer sex, if they have those kind of thoughts at all. Mustrum is a man of the world, when the world can manage to be straightforward about it. He had an active life before entering the cutthroat world of Archchancellorship. Stibbons, though, is something of a mystery, that sojourn in Lancre aside. He remembers Stibbons as a pallid, excitable student, devoted to his work, who turned into an equally pallid and slightly less excitable faculty member devoted to paperwork. He still hasn't commented on Mustrum's hand.

Mustrum gives up. "All right then." He parts the folds of fabric of Stibbons's robes, shifts red material out of the way, and covers him with his hand. "Try not to overreact."

"Gah," Stibbons says intelligently.

"Just like that, good. You need to relax." He means it kindly, but Stibbons glares at him.

Stibbons says, "You're making that rather difficult. Archchancellor, what-."

"Hush now." There's a pale, lightly hairy thigh, and then warm flesh. Stibbons rocks under his hand. Mustrum says, "Think of the Faculty at Brazeneck, and the staff you'd get and the research papers you'd get around to writing." Stibbons is staring wildly about the room but he's not going anywhere and he spreads his legs wider. Mustrum says, "And you turned all of those baubles down so there must have been some good reason."

Stibbons murmurs, "I told you- Hex, and-."

"Good reason, I said. Now maybe you just like being the only one around the place who knows what's going on."

"You think I-?" Stibbons's back arches and Mustrum has to breathe slowly to keep himself under control. Stibbons says, "_like_ that?"

Mustrum shrugs with his free arm. "You keep the place running. There's some magic in that. Some power, for all you claim your thaumic energy'd hardly set the world alight."

"We're not supposed to- ah- set the world alight. That's the whole point."

"And you're good at that. Keeping order. If you left, the place would go to pieces."

Stibbons shakes his head. "I don't really know what I'm doing. Most of the time I'm just-."

"Hoping no one notices," Mustrum says. "Let me tell you a secret. So am I. Amazed the place hasn't fallen down on our ears before now. But it continues, and there are no giant chickens in our streets, so we must be doing something right. So don't go anywhere just yet, young Stibbons." He can feel the glare at 'young' but responds by tightening his grip. It's brisk, perhaps – Mustrum doesn't see the need for unnecessary fiddly bits – but Stibbons gasps. He makes a sound like a wounded thing and spills messily over Mustrum's hand.

Stibbons bites his lip. "Archchancellor, I…"

Mustrum wipes off the mess with his handkerchief, and waits until Stibbons has done the same. He claps his hands together. "Feel better?"

"I don't understand, I…" He pulls up short. "We should have left by now. We should-."

Mustrum checks the time. "They were on after-dinner mints and brandy when I left, so I'd say we still have a few minutes. Clean yourself up, there's a good lad. If anyone asks, well… Didn't we decide to start a new tradition of checking on the health of the Master of Traditions? Which is you, as I recall. And you can't check on your own health, now can you? So I suppose that ought to be my responsibility, can't trust the rest of that rabble with it. You go ahead and sign it or pp it or whichever, and then the whole thing's perfectly fine, no harm no foul. And do cheer up, would you? We're on sabbatical."

"We're…"

"Yes, yes, yes, sister institution of learning, giving aid and instruction et cetera et cetera. The important thing is: _our_ Head of Inadvisably Applied Magic has the know-how to remember to build a whatchamacallit thingamajig to guard against changes in the hoosit interface. And theirs doesn't. So let's go and get the rest of the Faculty and that nice gentleman from the Times*, and go help Brazeneck realise the error of their ways, shall we?"

Stibbons manages to get his colour under control and smiles, just a little. "I suppose I can finish the paperwork on the road."

Mustrum claps him on the back. "That's the spirit. Look on the bright side – if they manage to destroy their own university, maybe we can poach a few of _their_ faculty members for a change. I'll even see if we can find you a secretary, how would you like that? You can practice your delegation, get someone pp-ing for you for a change."

Stibbons brushes himself down and sighs. "Yes, Archchancellor. I suppose I could." Still, he does look more relaxed, so Mustrum chooses to call it an overwhelming victory. Now they just have that chicken to deal with, which should be a much simpler proposition. As long as Henry keeps out of his way, at any rate.

* _The Times_ had in fact sent Airi Stalsson, in principle a war correspondent, to cover the events. When questioned, William de Worde had pointed out rather sharply that he was sending someone into a situation which boiled down to one wizard saying to another, "I don't know if you've noticed, but my staff's bigger than yours" and that Airi was the only one practiced in suicidally dangerous situations.


End file.
